Three Rules
by CaveSpiderson
Summary: There are three simple rules Steve and Sodapop follow in a world where the dead wander the streets; they aren't nice ones, but they work. (Zombie AU)


Rule number one: the only dead that you worry about are the ones walking around, any others are gone and there was nothing you could do about it. Get over it.

A loud whoop echoed through the empty streets of what was once known as Tulsa. A beat up, scratched, blood-blotched truck roared down the abandoned streets wildly, calling every walking rot-pile within a fifteen mile radius like a dinner bell. Gun shots soon followed.

Steve drove the truck while Soda stood up, his upper half poking out from the hole they cut in the roof, acting as a turret.

"BANG-BANG, FUCKERS!" He cried with glee.

The rotting remains of the human race danced with each bullet, although few actually got hit in the head. Soda let out a hearty laugh when the back of one walker's head exploded against a brick wall. Steve kept his foot down on the gas, his head hanging out the window. He hollered right alongside Soda. Anyone who was hiding in the rubbly remains of the town knew better than to come out when those two psychopaths were claiming the streets; they didn't hesitate on killing anyone, or anything. It had become something of a game to the boys who wore torn up leather jackets and car grease in their hair, if only as a way to cope with everything.

Soda paused his hunting rifle long enough to scout around for another walker to kill. Steve took a hard right, swinging onto a new street altogether to avoid crashing into a pile-up of totalled cars crushed by broken bits of the buildings above. Soda whooped again and hung on tight.

On this new street, a bunch of dead wandered, drawn to the ruckus the boys were making. Soda picked them off one by one, his gun kicking each time. Corpses danced and heads exploded, rotting brain matter and broken bits of craniums flying everywhere. Then something caught the blond's wicked eye.

"Steve! Cut the gas!"

Soda lurched forward as Steve slammed recklessly on the brake; he barely managed to salvage his front teeth by getting his hands out to brace himself in time.

Steve's head poked out into Soda's view.

"Why're we stoppin'?"

Rule number two: there's no rules when it comes to the dead. It isn't fucked up if they're still fresh.

"Look at that one, yonder," Soda replied, pointing the butt of his gun towards a black-haired walker sauntering slowly down the road. It walked with a terrible limp. Soda licked his lips, leaning across the top of the truck. "Still fresh. Must've only died today or yesterday. You game?"

Steve squinted, then grinned. "She's pretty. Let's go for it."

"I'll get it," Soda said, dropping himself down into the passenger seat, before crawling into the back. Steve cut the engine, his eyes following the walker to make sure it didn't wander off on them. After a moment, Soda re-emerged from the back with an axe slung over his shoulder, grinning.

The blond climbed out the truck, slamming the door behind him. Steve picked up the gun meanwhile, standing up in the turret hole instead to keep watch. He locked and loaded it. The only causalities they wanted to happen were other people.

The walker they had their sights on was significantly smaller than Soda and much stupider; it didn't even realize Soda had crept up on it until he gave it a hard jab in the back with the handle of the axe. It turned and Soda raised his weapon.

Then there came a moment of sick hesitation as Sodapop stared at the dead, pale face of Johnny Cade.

Murky, lifeless eyes rolled in their sockets behind clumps of dark bangs. When he- it?- opened his mouth, the overwhelming stench of decay washed over Soda's senses in a way that he knew all too well. A low guttural hissing noise came from Johnny's throat as he started stumbling forward, arms raising. The corpse was so fresh that there was a gun still tucked into the pocket of Dally's old coat, which he was wearing.

_You were supposed to be dead._

Steve panicked when Soda went so long without taking a hit on the walker. They always followed the same plan; pick a fresh one, hack its jaw off, then it's arms and feet, it made them vulnerable that way. He didn't wait. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

A shot rang out and Soda jumped back.

Johnny gurgled, then fell forward, limp and lifeless. The corpse lay at Soda's feet, his head turned off to the side, arms rumpled under his body as if boneless. The bullet had entered his temple at an angle, no doubt lodging in his decaying brain, and Soda came to find out that the cause of his limp was from the knee twisted almost backwards.

Soda stared down at him, his hands trembling.

_You were supposed to be dead a long time ago, Johnnycake._

From the truck, Steve hollered, "What the hell's the matter with you? You act like you've never seen one of 'em before!"

Shaking his head, Soda quickly jogged back to the truck. He struggled to keep his grip tight on the axe. He threw the weapon into the back seat, then climbed into the front himself.

"I dunno what came over me, man," Soda lied, his eyes lingering on Johnny's corpse. Steve dropped down into the driver's seat, his lips pursed in question. He dumped the gun into Soda's lap with a shrug. "Somethin' about that one just spooked me, I guess. Had wild eyes. Look, let's just get out of here, outta Tulsa; the dead around here are starting to give me the creeps."

Soda put his feet up on the dash as the truck rumbled to life. He made himself smile that million dollar grin. Steve had no objections. Putting the truck into gear, they took off down the street in a cloud of dust, leaving the familiar corpse of an old friend but a mere memory.

Rule number three: what someone doesn't know, won't hurt them.


End file.
